


The Scarf

by Venstar



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Halloween, M/M, derivation of a ghostly tale, for the mi6 spooqy readalong, sp00qy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 19:43:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12539716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venstar/pseuds/Venstar
Summary: Based on the spooky tale: 'The Green Ribbon'





	The Scarf

**Author's Note:**

> fyi, it's MCD only because the original spooky story ended with MCD so...yeah, but it's just a halloween story, no like spy related action hero death and torture. so make your best choice ;)

Once there was a boy named Q.  A bright, intelligent boy, with pale skin, and a head full of dark curls.  He was like all the other boys in his class...except for one thing.  He always wore a blue scarf around his neck.  In the cold, in the heat, in the rain, and when the sun beat down heavily on the street, which was a rare event in London.

 

There was also a boy named James.  He was in Q’s class, but he was not like all the other boys in his class.  He liked Q, and that was an odd thing.  For Q wasn’t used to being liked.  There was something about his pale, elegant air that put people off.  Stuck up, loner, quiet...weirdo.  Those were words commonly associated with the strange stick of a lad.  So you can see, he was not used to being liked by anyone, especially not by broad shouldered, blond boys with icy blue eyes, who were into rugby and cricket.  James should have liked the girls in his class, but he liked Q above all others.

 

One day while playing with the ends of Q’s scarf, and having his hand swatted away for the umpteenth time, he asked.  “Why do you wear that scarf all the time?”

 

“I can not tell you,” Q said, and there was a note of sadness, of farewell to his voice.  As though he was saying goodbye, instead of hello.

 

But James, being stubborn and fond of Q, kept asking,  “why do you wear it?”

 

And Q would say, “it’s not important.” And he would return to his task, mainly checking to see if James had managed to finish all his homework and lo and behold, his answers were almost as brilliant as Q’s.

 

James thought the scarf must be important, for Q was important to him and he never gave up asking and Q never gave up ignoring James.

 

Q and James grew up and became employees of MI6.  Spy and Quartermaster.  James’s affection never wavered and Q’s exasperation never ceased.  They fell in love and one day, they were married.

 

“Finally!”  James said with joy as they walked out of the church.

 

“Hush,”  Q said, a wry smile on his face.

 

After their wedding, James whispered quietly into the space between Q’s shoulder and neck.  “Now you must tell me about your scarf.”

 

Q shook his head, a small, sad smile upon his face.  “You must still wait.  I will tell you when the right time comes.”

 

James let out the sigh of an impatient child deprived of its treat.

 

Years passed, and they were some of the fullest, and strangest years that spies and their Quartermasters could lead.  James and Q grew old, until one day, Q became very sick.  

 

The doctor told James and Q that Q was dying, there wasn’t much for the doctor to do.  James sent him on his way, angry with the prognosis.  “He has much life left in him, begone!”

 

Q tried to calm James, who was bereft by his bed.  He laid his hand over James’s.   “James,” he whispered.  “Now I can tell you about the scarf.”  Q’s fingertips brushed over the ever present blue scarf with it’s ragged ends.  He tugged at the knot. 

 

James looked at Q curiously.

 

Q smiled.  “Untie it and you will see, why I could not tell you before.”

 

James smiled eagerly and fondly at Q.  He oh so gently pulled at the knot, where the scarf was tied, and after his labors, the knot loosened and the ends slipped free.  He released the scarf and gave a tug...

 

And Q’s head fell off.


End file.
